


Twelve

by Isis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Caning, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-01
Updated: 2004-05-01
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry gets detention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve

He was in trouble. Really, really in trouble. He didn't dare say that he'd needed the mercury and the powdered mermaid scales so he could brew a Scrying Solution, because the next question would be what he was going to do with it, and wasn't it obvious, anyway? Trying to reach beyond the Veil to talk to Sirius, that's what. And Snape hated Sirius, so that would be even worse, make him go even more white-faced and angry than he was now.

And the awful thing was Dumbledore's face when Snape called him down to the classroom. Gentle and sad and...disappointed, that was it. Disappointed in him. He'd never seen that look directed at him; even when he'd broken the rules, Dumbledore had known there was a good reason behind it -- up to now. Now it seemed as though there were a whole new set of expectations he had to live up to. He was Harry Potter, was supposed to be the hero. Supposed to be on a track for glory, fulfil that damned Prophecy. Do wonderful things - hell, he was going to be an Auror, wasn't he? Except that Snape would probably kick him out of Advanced Potions now, after this. And Dumbledore would just shake his head sadly and tell Harry how disappointed he was.

He had mumbled that he was sorry, and the Headmaster and Snape had gone into Snape's office and had a heated conversation - not that he could hear what Dumbledore said, but Snape was practically yelling. Detention for the rest of the year. Monetary restitution. Corporal punishment. Whatever it would be, it couldn't be as bad as Umbridge's quill. At least he hadn't said anything about expelling him; that was the only punishment Harry really feared.

Minutes ticked by. Harry looked at the floor and strained to hear Dumbledore's quiet responses to Snape's outbursts. 

Finally the two of them seemed to come to some agreement. The Headmaster looked grave as they emerged. "Harry, I am afraid I have to agree with Professor Snape. Theft is a very serious offence."

"I know that. I'm sorry."

"I've agreed that we will confiscate your invisibility cloak," he went on, and Harry looked up sharply. Dumbledore was the one who'd given it to him! But he supposed that was getting off lightly.

"In addition," continued Dumbledore, "you will serve detention with Professor Snape every night for the next two months. And I've given permission for...corporal punishment." He looked rather stern, thought Harry, wondering what, exactly, corporal punishment entailed. 

Both men looked at him expectantly, so he muttered, "Yes, sir," and hoped that would be sufficient. Dumbledore nodded toward Snape and left; it was odd, thought Harry, but he actually felt better now that Dumbledore was gone, even though Snape had not stopped glowering at him. Far better to face Snape's wrath than that disappointment.

"Well, Potter." Snape's voice sounded as oily as his hair; the thunderous expression had been replaced by...anticipation, perhaps? It was a crafty sort of look, his thin lips pressed tightly together, his eyes narrowed and calculating. "Shall we get started?"

"Yeah," said Harry, shifting on his feet. He wondered what Snape would make him scrub tonight. Cauldrons, tables, the floor?

"Over here," Snape commanded, and he scuffed his way over to the desk. "Robe off and trousers down."

"What?"

"Trousers down, Potter." His eyes gleamed. "Perhaps a physical punishment will cure you of your casual disregard for the rules, since nothing else seems to have worked."

A physical...?

Oh, no.

"I had thought ten strokes," said Snape, taking a stirring stick from a cabinet and laying it on the desk. He squinted at it and waved his wand, muttering an incantation that Harry couldn't quite catch; the stick lengthened and thickened into a nasty-looking rod. Nasty-looking, that is, when looked at with the understanding that this was what was going to be applied to his arse. He gulped.

"But for every minute that you stand there like a statue, I believe I'll add two more," Snape continued, still looking at the rod rather than at him.

Harry gulped. All right. He moved to the desk and unfastened his robe, letting it drop to the floor.

"As careless with your clothing as you are with your schoolwork, I see," came a cutting voice from behind him.

He flushed involuntarily. Bad enough that he had to undress in front of his least favourite teacher, but was he going to keep up a running commentary on his failings? Going to criticize his legs? 

"We are up to twelve, Potter. If you don't wish to make it fourteen?"

He fumbled his trousers down, trying not to look at Snape. That would make it worse. Straight ahead. He had started to step out of them when a bark behind him stilled his hands.

"Pants as well."

"You can't!" Harry gasped, shocked. This couldn't be allowed, could it?

"I can, and I will. And you will." He could hear the grim satisfaction in Snape's voice.

Face flaming, he tugged down his pants. Bare-arsed in Snape's office with his trousers awkwardly puddled about his ankles; what could possibly be worse?

"Hands on the desk," said Snape smoothly. And then he found out what could be worse, as the cane whistled through the air and came down hard. He yelped involuntarily, no more than a rough exhale, really, but Snape made a disapproving noise. "You are to count, Potter, not whine."

"Er...one?"

"Very good," said Snape, voice heavy with sarcasm. 

Harry was prepared for the next blow, and did not flinch despite the pain. "Two."

"Three." 

"Four."

"F-five." Now it was beginning to hurt. The first few blows had been spaced evenly across his arse, but this one had landed on already abused skin. The sixth and seventh followed quickly, with barely time for him to gasp out the count each time, as though Snape had become entranced by the punishment he was giving and could hardly wait to give him another. Each blow blended into a haze of pain, such that Harry was almost grateful for the work of counting them, for giving them each a separate identity, for acknowledging each step toward the relief he'd feel when Snape had finished.

By the eighth stroke, delivered with deliberate slowness, his entire arse was on fire, and he was desperate for the punishment to be over.

By the tenth the fire had spread, tentatively, toward his prick. 

By the time he stammered out "Twelve," the relief he felt that this was the last blow was overwhelmed by his terror at being half-hard, tingling from his waist down to his thighs, to his balls, to the tip of his cock. How could he possibly have become aroused by that? And God, what if Snape saw? As if the man didn't hate him enough already. He could just imagine what he'd say, in that sneering voice of his: "Eager for more, Potter?" Harry'd rather die on the spot than be caught like this.

A cool rush of air across his backside from Snape's robes swirling in the air; he must have stepped away. Stepped away, and was walking around the desk, oh God, please let him not look at me, Harry thought feverishly, oh please. It was absolutely the wrong place to have an erection, wasn't it, but thinking about that didn't make it go away.

But Snape took something from a cupboard and walked back; very deliberately, it seemed, not looking at Harry. Not looking, not speaking. Maybe he wanted him just to get his clothes back on and go, he thought hopefully, and reached down toward his trousers. 

"Hands on the desk!" barked Snape, and Harry quickly returned to his former position. So it wasn't over. He didn't want to think about what might be next. Another stroke of the cane on his smarting arse? A paddling with something else? Maybe he'd retrieved a camera, Harry thought with a sudden, sinking feeling in his gut, and was going to take photographic evidence.

Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn't the salve which was abruptly being spread over his skin, quenching the burn with a delicious tingling coolness that somehow made him think of melting ice cream. He gave an involuntary gasp, then relaxed into it - then gasped and jerked away again as his brain caught up with his body and he remembered that this was Snape doing it, Snape whose hands were rubbing the smooth cream into his skin --

"Keep still. It's merely a healing potion to keep you from being unduly distracted during your classes tomorrow." 

"I - oh, no - of course." He knew he was babbling. But God, it felt _good_ , amazing, astonishing. And the hands were soft and stroking his arse in small circles, and his erection was not going away but was filling, increasing, and it felt so good. It was no use, Snape was going to see his cock sticking out like a flagpole, but it was his fault, wasn't it, the way Snape was stroking and touching him, he shouldn't be doing it, should he? Shouldn't be sliding a slippery hand down the crack of his bum, shouldn't be moving so close that he could feel the little fibres of Snape's robe standing out to tickle his skin.

In some dim corner of his mind Harry knew he ought to say something. He opened his mouth, tentatively. 

And moaned as one of Snape's hands snaked around his front to grasp his cock. Involuntarily he bucked his hips forward.

"Be still, Potter," hissed Snape.

God, was this part of the punishment? Loosely wrapped around his prick, Snape's hand was almost enough to bring him off. But it was just a light enough touch that he felt himself only inching toward climax, and very soon it seemed to him that he had to come, he needed to come, or he would die. Suddenly the fact that this was Snape whose fingers were gently stroking his cock and massaging lotion into his arse was immaterial; his barely-formed protest died in his throat, because if he said something Snape might stop. 

But Snape didn't stop. He stroked and caressed and touched and swirled, fingers branding him with heat, cooling him with lotion, driving him completely, utterly, out of his mind. A finger strayed into his hole and he forced himself not to push back on it (be still, Potter, he told himself) but oh, that sensation, he wanted to scream. He wanted to drive that finger deeply into his arse, thrust himself forward into that hand, God, yes, he was so close, it didn't matter that it was Snape, whose ragged breathing was the only thing he could hear over the pounding of his own heart.

No. Not quite.

There was something else, not just breathing but a whispered sound as Snape exhaled, a sound that Harry had to strain to hear even though he was standing close behind him.

"...seven..."

Snape was counting strokes, and this time they were strokes not of the cane but of his hand, not blows on the arse but sliding caresses against Harry's cock, his hand almost imperceptibly tightening each time.

"...eight..."

Snape was counting strokes, as he'd asked Harry to count, so did this mean that this was a punishment for him? Or was it just a warning to him that this was all he'd get, twelve strokes for twelve strokes? Twelve to his arse, twelve to his prick. The thought sped his pulse, concentrated his sensation in his groin. 

"...nine..."

Since the moment that he had been commanded to drop his pants, Harry had been staring across the room, not focusing on anything at all. But now he could not resist. He let his chin sink just a fraction, let his eyes drop enough to see oh God oh God. 

"...ten..."

There were Snape's familiar fingers, clutching not a ladle or a wand but Harry's own reddened cock, and Harry was undone. He bit back another moan but couldn't control the small motion that escaped him, a quick slide and clench of hips and thighs, but instead of castigating him again Snape's breath caught in his throat, he could hear it over the whisper of _eleven_ , and Snape's fingers slid against him, into him, just that much faster and harder and with a gasp he was climaxing, spurting across Snape's hand ( _twelve_ ) and desk and probably all the way onto the floor.

The hands moved away from him, leaving him panting against the desk. He'd decorated it, all right; strings of white lay scattered across the dark wood and the parchment on top. He wondered whose essay he'd just ruined. Probably didn't matter; Snape'd just fail them all anyway. 

And Snape would fail him too, because there was no way he was going to manage Potions class after this. No way he could look him in the eye. He'd probably cut himself chopping slugs, or with trembling hands drop too much aconite into the cauldron, or simply sit red-faced in his seat unable to do the simplest task. In fact, Harry thought, maybe he'd just die of embarrassment right there, right against Snape's desk, save Voldemort the trouble.

A damp cloth was thrust ungently into his hand: "Clean it up and get out." Harry looked around but Snape had already moved away and was busying himself at a cupboard, staring intently at something disgusting in a jar. He wondered whether Snape had got hard, under those robes, and if he had, which was it that got him excited? The beating, or the caressing? It was an oddly unsettling thought.

He wiped himself and pulled up his trousers; then it occurred to him that Snape had probably meant for him to clean the mess on the desk, and he dabbed at it ineffectually for a few minutes before deciding that he really needed a new cloth to make any progress. Snape was still not looking at him, and anyway he would sooner muck out a hippogriff stall with a teaspoon than ask him for a cloth, for anything.

Snape would probably be upset with him. But he had detention again tomorrow; he could just add his fouled desk to Harry's list of offences.

Maybe tomorrow he'd get fourteen.


End file.
